


Shiny Little Bullet

by RyMagnatar



Series: Playing with Guns [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gunplay, M/M, post-game?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-28
Updated: 2012-05-28
Packaged: 2017-11-06 04:05:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/414505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RyMagnatar/pseuds/RyMagnatar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your boyfriend has a thing for guns. You are starting to get one as well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shiny Little Bullet

He has a thing for guns.

He collects them.

In all shapes and sizes, from little ones that fit snugly in his hand to long rifles that rest up against his shoulder and to even to those huge ones they have to bolt to the ground or mount on armored cars.

He keeps them in a underground vault, hidden behind a locked door with a keypad, a heavy lock and with cameras all over. He's freakish about his collection, polishes them and shoots them to keep them in working condition. His hands smell like gunmetal and his clothing like gunpowder and whenever he slides an arm around your shoulders and kisses your cheek you get surrounded in the smell. It has definitely grown on you.

Sometimes he lets you shoot them too. You slide your fingers over carefully polished metal and into the worn grooves where his hands slide so easily. Behind protective glasses and under the heavy headphones that dull the sound of the guns, you fire at the homemade gun-range.

The bullets tear through the shitty posters he hangs at the opposite end. Posters for craptastic movies or of actors or singers or whatever the hell else he decides to buy. The metal rips the paper into shreds and after the poster bits float to the floor and you lower the empty gun, you feel a cool hand slide up from the small of your back to your shoulders. A cool mouth presses a kiss to your jaw and you reach up an pull off your headphones.

"Davve," his voice is like black ink, silken smooth and dark. It make you think of the images of the dark ocean you've seen on tv shows during Shark Week. He slides his hand under the gun's barrel and around your fingers. He lifts it up and in two seconds you go from completely at ease beside him to on edge as the end of the barrel- still warm from your shooting- slides under your chin and presses into the soft flesh under your jaw. Your eyes widen and your breath freezes in your chest. He is smiling at you, showing rows of his teeth, and he licks the shell of your ear, "Are you sure you shot evvery bullet?"

His hand tightens around yours and for a split second you _can't fucking remember_ if you did or not. Had your finger pulled at an empty trigger before you lowered the gun or did you simply stop shooting when there was nothing left to shoot at? A cold sweat forms down your spine as he pushes with the gun, urging your head back. His grip tightens and tightens  and you can feel your fingers shaking under his hand as you fight to resist.

You open your mouth to say something, but he presses his lips over yours and kisses you, hard. There's a desperate edge to it, like this might be the last kiss you ever have and you moan loudly into it.

The clicking sound of the trigger actually makes you jump, makes you groan in relief, makes all the tension in your body melt out of you like dropped ice cream on the sidewalk in summer. His other arm coils around your hips and he pulls the gun from your limp fingers. He puts it, somewhere, anywhere, you don't care where, and pushes you against the wall.

His hips grind against yours and you grunt into his mouth as you feel the pressure of his bulge inside his pants on your crotch. When he finally pulls his mouth from yours--to send it down along your neck to suck and lick with his long, cool tongue and smirking lips-- you hiss out the words, "You _asshole_."

He has the nerve to rock his hips against you and laugh against your skin, "I keep tellin' you to count your fuckin' bullets, Davve. You think you'll remember this time?"

You can't even complain that you hated the way he decided to 'teach' you one of his retarded gun rules because in the next second he has your pants open and his hand around your cock. He's always colder than you expect, you remember, and it drives a shock through your system that makes you arch up and into his grip.

The cold of his fingers doesn't last long there and soon he's shoving your pants down and his hands are squeezing at your thighs. His tongue slides up your neck and he bites your earlobe hard enough to make you bleed. You spread your legs for him and just as you expect him to push things forward, his hand moves away.

Your heart leaps into your throat as you feel cold metal slide up the inside of your thigh. You gasp as the notch on the tip of the barrel catches on your balls and then prickles up the side of your cock. "F-fuck," you gasp out, barely able to breathe. You glance down and see nothing in his violet eyes except for mischievous light and danger. His pupils are blown wide in his lust for you, for this scene.

"Startin' wwith twwenty."

Gripping his shoulders tightly, you swallow with more difficulty than you'd ever admit. "Fucking-"

"Count them," he interrupts you and you choke on a scream, kill it in your throat, as his hand whips up as fast as you flashstep and points down the shooting range. The gunfire snaps loudly, a painful crack against your ears, your brain and you bite the inside of your cheek to keep from wincing.

When the silence finally comes, he is leaning into your space again and the hot barrel tip is stroking down the side of your neck. It slides over your chest, and then stops again, resting down against the base of your hard cock. "Howw many?" He purrs into your ear.

For one, long, desperate moment you try to focus back on the earsplitting sounds. How many. How many. How many. How many of those bullets went flying down the range and digging into the opposite wall with so many others? How many were left in the clip of the gun that pressed against your throbbing erection? How many times had his finger pulled that trigger to create deafening noise- to teach you his goddamn lesson?

"Nineteen," You breathe out, soft but sure. Even if you weren't you would sound confident. Yet in this case you are. Nineteen times he shot his weapon. One bullet remained. One shining little bullet in a gun nestled against that part of you that found this so much hotter than you ever would have thought in your head.

He doesn't bother asking you if you're sure. He simply lifts the gun and pulls back the top of it. That unspent bullet pops out and clatters to the floor. The empty gun is tucked away out of sight. "A-fuckin'-plus," he murmurs against your jaw and you let out a soft shudder. "Get a gold star and everythin'."

You slide a hand across his shoulders and to his hair. Grabbing a handful of the black locks you hiss out, "I'm more interested in something of the violet variety."

He grins, all shark teeth and lust, and works open the front of his pants. You groan as his fingers curl around the loose part of your jeans, where he has already begun to push them down and he _pulls_. You can feel the flex of muscle from all the way up in his shoulders and the ripping sound of fabric gives you goosebumps. "I liked those ones," you say because you have to. If you don't then you'll start whining for his teasing fingertips to leave your thighs and get the fuck to business.

"Shortened your legs," he murmurs an excuse and you arch up onto your toes as he presses dry fingers against your ass. He drags his claws lightly over your skin and then grips a double handful of back of your thighs and your ass.

You can't stop the warble of pleasure that vibrates its way from your chest and out your mouth when he lifts your legs up and settles between them. His bulge presses against your opening and you force yourself to relax, just enough to feel him press through the tight ring.

He's cold, and dripping wet already, and slowly pushes himself up and in.

Legs wrapped around his hips, arms around his neck, you lean in and bite his mouth, his jaw, his fins, and smirk when he bites back at you. You feel the hard metal of his guns jammed in the back of his pants against your calves and lock your ankles tightly together and use them to press the metal against his back.

With one hand on your thigh, he slides the other between you and begins stroking you. His bulge pushes in and out with his thrusting hips and you wish this eager, needy, tense fucking could last so much longer than you know it will. But its the guns, the smell of the oil, the gunpowder in the air, the fear and the adrenaline and the danger that is wrapped around the pair of you.

Neither one of you stand a chance.

He rolls against you. You push back. His bulge throbs against your prostate. You dig your teeth into his fin. He scores cuts down your thighs. You grip his horn and dig your nails into the fleshy bed of it.

He snarls your name and you moan his like a ten dollar whore.

When he comes, he does it in waves. It spills out of you, rushing down your skin and dripping from between you onto the floor. His hand is curled around your cock, preventing most of your seed from hitting him but more than enough to splatter against your own shirt.

He holds you in place against the wall, his bulge still lingering a little inside, and he pants. You rely on him, this once, to hold you up as your forehead lays on his shoulder.

He collects guns.

Large and small and each one more dangerous than the last.

He has a vault for his guns, for his private gun range, all behind a locked door.

And with cameras all over.

You collect videos.

You love it when your little hobbies mesh so well.


End file.
